Why does breaking into a house through a window always look easier in the movies?
Locked my keys in the house yesterday. Again. Had to scale the back wall and enter through the bathroom window. Sixth time I've climbed through a window since moving to Missoula. Nearly fell hand-first into the toilet. Not a lifetime highlight, let me tell you.
Moral of the story: don't lock your doors. Getting robbed is preferable to swimming in toilet water. Even if your shit's uninsured.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Crazy small world
August 2003: I drive my battered red Geo Prizm down Divide to Sleepy Hollow. The parking lot is packed, people in all states of formal dress wandering along the pavement toward the bridge. I follow a few friends and take a seat in the grass tiers overlooking the outdoor stage. A cute brother-sister duo harmonizes beautifully as Nicole walks out in her bridal dress. I've known Nicole a long time, listened to her complain about the inner workings of the Bismarck High School yearbook, laughed during speech meets at her highly recognized rendition of Christopher Durang's "Laughing Wild" alongside Johnny B. After the ceremony, we all gab over a buffet dinner in the park. All in all a wonderful wedding.
September 20, 2009, sometime around one a.m.: I'm drinking gin and tonics with Melissa, Bret and their friend Julie at the Old Post. We hoped to catch some music, but all the worthwhile shows are charging grotesque covers. The waitress makes a reference to Charles Xavier from X-Men, something I wish happened far more often. Julie asks where I'm from and I respond North Dakota.
"Really? Where in North Dakota?" Julie asks.
"Bismarck."
"No kidding. I bet I could rattle off a few names that you might recognize."
"Hit me."
She names a handful of families, none ringing more than a faint bell. Then she mentions Nicole's name. I light up.
"Yea, I know Nicole. I went to high school with her. We were huge speech geeks."
"You know, she's my cousin."
"No shit?" Heavy emphasis on the -it.
"I went out to Bismarck for her wedding."
"Um, I was there too..."
Small world. Crazy small.
September 20, 2009, sometime around one a.m.: I'm drinking gin and tonics with Melissa, Bret and their friend Julie at the Old Post. We hoped to catch some music, but all the worthwhile shows are charging grotesque covers. The waitress makes a reference to Charles Xavier from X-Men, something I wish happened far more often. Julie asks where I'm from and I respond North Dakota.
"Really? Where in North Dakota?" Julie asks.
"Bismarck."
"No kidding. I bet I could rattle off a few names that you might recognize."
"Hit me."
She names a handful of families, none ringing more than a faint bell. Then she mentions Nicole's name. I light up.
"Yea, I know Nicole. I went to high school with her. We were huge speech geeks."
"You know, she's my cousin."
"No shit?" Heavy emphasis on the -it.
"I went out to Bismarck for her wedding."
"Um, I was there too..."
Small world. Crazy small.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
All in a day's work
Ever wondered what would happen if you just didn't take the next bend on a mountain road?
Yea, me neither.
Spent two hours at Harold's Club in Milltown yesterday. Downed two pints of Pabst while on the clock, all in the name of fine journalism. Loving our approach to the Oct. 1 smoking ban. Even drove down to the Jack for the first time this afternoon. Smoked, chatted. Great stuff. Story's shaping up to be really entertaining.
Em and I went to the Paolo Nutini concert last night. Saw more people at the premiere of "Pirates of the Caribbean II" in Choteau. But small crowds are almost better at the Wilma. Less fighting for floorspace. The opening act-Anya Marina-surprised me. A gal with a sultry voice, a hollow-body and an iPod Nano has no right being half that entertaining. Paolo sent every high school girl in the crowd over the edge. Even the 20-something groover in the creepy wifebeater in front of us got down. Glimpsed the most striking Dustin Hoffman lookalike on Earth. Right down to the "killer with the ladies" bit. I only hope I end up that suave when I hit my 50s.
Yea, me neither.
Spent two hours at Harold's Club in Milltown yesterday. Downed two pints of Pabst while on the clock, all in the name of fine journalism. Loving our approach to the Oct. 1 smoking ban. Even drove down to the Jack for the first time this afternoon. Smoked, chatted. Great stuff. Story's shaping up to be really entertaining.
Em and I went to the Paolo Nutini concert last night. Saw more people at the premiere of "Pirates of the Caribbean II" in Choteau. But small crowds are almost better at the Wilma. Less fighting for floorspace. The opening act-Anya Marina-surprised me. A gal with a sultry voice, a hollow-body and an iPod Nano has no right being half that entertaining. Paolo sent every high school girl in the crowd over the edge. Even the 20-something groover in the creepy wifebeater in front of us got down. Glimpsed the most striking Dustin Hoffman lookalike on Earth. Right down to the "killer with the ladies" bit. I only hope I end up that suave when I hit my 50s.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Tricycling Missoula
The life of the unabashedly single boasts one major hazard: the inevitability of finding oneself the dread "third wheel." This shouldn't be viewed as a complaint, merely an analysis of social phenomena I've found myself party to quite often. Passing the odd weeknight or Saturday afternoon with two close friends who happen to be dating isn't all that uncommon. Far from. But sometimes the circumstances of those outings stand out as particularly unique. For example, J and K kindly invited me to a dinner outing a few Tuesdays back. Not one to pass up a pitcher and a po-boy at Charlie's, or conversation with two of my favorite people for that matter, I took up the offer instantly. We chatted work and school and social goings-on for a while, then J reminded me of the day's significance: J and K's eight-month anniversary. Thinking about it still makes me smile. I can't say I didn't push J a little hard in his initial interest in K, and I'm glad I got to raise a toast with them in celebration.
Sometimes, though, the situation makes me downright uncomfortable. About a year and a half back, I found myself setting a possible record as the ninth wheel. Yea, that's right. The couples at the time were all good friends: J and J, P and A, B and E, and S and T. I got a last-minute invite to a Mauler's hockey game (hockey, I admit, was the single motivating factor in suffering a couples overdose). Unlike prior brushes with third-wheel, fifth-wheel and even seventh-wheel syndrome, this ninth wheel crap left me feeling more than the odd man out. I can only imagine it's how Neil Armstrong felt staring down at Earth from the Moon. Complete and total isolation. If three fights hadn't broken out in quick succession, I'd probably have lost my freaking mind.
Not quite as strange was last night's little excursion to the Osprey's playoff game against Great Falls. B invited me, though in all fairness he did warn me that he and A were going with A's parents. K and T came along as well, pushing me dangerously close to a repeat ninth-wheel experience. But I enjoyed the game, chatted with A's mom and joked around with B for the first time since he got back from Washington, D.C. K and T left early, and I tricycled alongside to the Top Hat for some excellent rock-and-reggae. Fun night, all told. Still...can't say I didn't feel the occasional twinge.
[Addendum: since writing this post on Sunday night, I've three-wheeled through the first half of "Wayne's World" with K and T and tossed back a wonderful night of Tanq-and-tonics with J and K.]
Work's going. Tomorrow I get a Montana license (only been putting that one off five months), perhaps full registration for my car on Wednesday (strongly encouraged by a dickish Missoula County sheriff's deputy from here on referred to only as Douchey McDoucebag). But life seems stuck, like movie characters when you hit the pause button. Morning temps are dipping to the low 50s. Fall's coming, and with it winter. Maybe then things will pick up. In the meantime, here I sit. At my desk. Or in my cubicle. Or on a bar stool somewhere, waiting for the bartender to shout last call so I have an excuse to shuffle on home.
Sometimes, though, the situation makes me downright uncomfortable. About a year and a half back, I found myself setting a possible record as the ninth wheel. Yea, that's right. The couples at the time were all good friends: J and J, P and A, B and E, and S and T. I got a last-minute invite to a Mauler's hockey game (hockey, I admit, was the single motivating factor in suffering a couples overdose). Unlike prior brushes with third-wheel, fifth-wheel and even seventh-wheel syndrome, this ninth wheel crap left me feeling more than the odd man out. I can only imagine it's how Neil Armstrong felt staring down at Earth from the Moon. Complete and total isolation. If three fights hadn't broken out in quick succession, I'd probably have lost my freaking mind.
Not quite as strange was last night's little excursion to the Osprey's playoff game against Great Falls. B invited me, though in all fairness he did warn me that he and A were going with A's parents. K and T came along as well, pushing me dangerously close to a repeat ninth-wheel experience. But I enjoyed the game, chatted with A's mom and joked around with B for the first time since he got back from Washington, D.C. K and T left early, and I tricycled alongside to the Top Hat for some excellent rock-and-reggae. Fun night, all told. Still...can't say I didn't feel the occasional twinge.
[Addendum: since writing this post on Sunday night, I've three-wheeled through the first half of "Wayne's World" with K and T and tossed back a wonderful night of Tanq-and-tonics with J and K.]
Work's going. Tomorrow I get a Montana license (only been putting that one off five months), perhaps full registration for my car on Wednesday (strongly encouraged by a dickish Missoula County sheriff's deputy from here on referred to only as Douchey McDoucebag). But life seems stuck, like movie characters when you hit the pause button. Morning temps are dipping to the low 50s. Fall's coming, and with it winter. Maybe then things will pick up. In the meantime, here I sit. At my desk. Or in my cubicle. Or on a bar stool somewhere, waiting for the bartender to shout last call so I have an excuse to shuffle on home.
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